


Marry me, idiot

by SuperJupiter



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 17:03:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6713488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperJupiter/pseuds/SuperJupiter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eight times Bellamy and Clarke propose to each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marry me, idiot

I  
The first time he proposes, she’s six and he’s eight. They don’t play together as much as they used to; Bellamy has friends his own age to hang out with, but it’s one of the rare occasions that Octavia is busy, so he’s at the Griffin’s for the day. 

“I want to play house, Bellamy,” she whines, tugging on his unruly curls. 

“Okay,” he acquiesces, as he usually does with Clarke. He’s found that’s it’s generally easier not to argue with her. 

“You can be the husband and I’ll be the wife,” she demands. There is no room for argument, as per the usual. Bellamy frowns anyway. 

“We can’t be married.” 

“Why not?” For the life of him, he can’t come up with a single reason why not, but it still feels weird somehow, maybe because Clarke is his best friend. If he were older, he might have said that it felt too easy, that this was a line he wasn’t supposed to cross. He would have noticed the thudding of his heart, the simplicity of imaging a life with her. But he’s eight, so he says the only thing he can think of. 

“I haven’t proposed.” 

Clarke pouts for a moment longer, but just a moment. 

“Well propose then.” She emphasizes the word as if it’s silly, as if only a single word shouldn’t keep them from being married. It’s years before Bellamy will agree with her.

“I don’t have a ring,” he replies dumbly, as if something so simple could keep Clarke Griffin from something she’s set her mind to. 

When Clarke rolls her eyes, they go so far back Bellamy’s worried they’ll get stuck that way. Instead, she plops down in the grass at his feet and plucks a few strands, examining them with a d. Seconds later, she’s knotting them together, her brow furrowed slightly as she ties the tiny pieces together. The little ring of green she holds up moments later is nearly perfect, but it still isn’t quite right. 

“I want to make it.” So he sits down next to her in the dewy grass and plucks his own strands. His ring, by any objective standard, is much worse than Clarke’s, but she thinks it’s the most beautiful ring she’s ever seen. He ushers her up, so he’s on one knee while she stands before him, blonde hair flowing behind her in the wind and looking like the perfect picture of beauty, at least to Bellamy. 

“Clarke Griffin, will you marry me?” 

 

II. 

The second time, Clarke is sixteen and Bellamy is eighteen. He’s no longer the innocent boy he was, unaware of the Griffin’s massive fortune and his own poverty. He’s no longer under Aurora’s care, and years of watching after Octavia have left him bitter and angry, tainted by the world that distains him and the dead end jobs he’s worked to keep them fed. He’s no longer the kid that walks Clarke to the bus stop or holds her hand during scary movie; he’s the boy who jeers at her in hallways and mocks her wealth, the one who abhors what she stands her, who would rather crucify her than love her. 

“Hey princess, are you going to share any of that with the rest of us?” he mocks when she pulls out her lunch. It’s nothing to fancy, just lasagna leftovers, but to Bellamy it’s proof that there’s someone there for her, someone to look after her, to tuck her in at night and make her breakfast in the morning. It is that love which he hates. 

“Fuck off, Blake,” she mutters, keeping her face utterly impassive. She can’t change the fact that he stops by her table at lunch sometimes specifically to mock her, but she’ll be damned if she lets him have the satisfaction of knowing he got to her. 

“Hey, no need to be rude, princess” he snorts, rapping his knuckles lightly on the table before turning away. It’s light today, the teasing, but it still feels like a knife in the gut. She knows the girls beside her will be fawning over how hot he is, so instead of sit through that, she decides to go the bathroom. By the time she gets back, they’ll have moved on. 

It’s today, of course, that her father’s ring gets caught on the edge of the table and rolls off her finger, bouncing along the white linoleum tile, and landing at the feet of one Bellamy Blake. 

He stoops, picking up the only piece Clarke has of Jake, twirling it over in his hands a couple of times before looking up for the owner. When he spots the flurry of blonde hair he can’t help but smirk, not standing up to greet her, but instead kneeling. 

“Marry me, princess?” he asks, sickeningly sweet, with venom seared into his words, hiding just under the surface. The hoots and cheers are enough to make her cry, and she can feel the bile rising in her throat. 

“In your dreams,” she replies, before snatching the ring harshly out of his hands. 

She doesn’t bring it to school again. 

 

III 

The third time, she’s nearly nineteen and Jake is barely buried, dirt and flowers still fresh on his grave. What she needs is a new kind of medication, not the harsh sting of vodka and the bitter flavor of cigarettes in her mouth. She seeks long dexterous fingers, a mop of chocolate curls, a clever, swift tongue, and rhythmic hips. 

They’ve done this twice before, drunk and fumbling between the sheets, but now she’s barely tipsy and yearns for the same blissful oblivion, the same fighting fury they have while sober, channeled into a new kind of violent energy. 

“What are you doing here?” She doesn’t speak so much as shove him into his bedroom and start tearing into him, lips finding that spot on his neck, hands roaming toward his belt. 

She has his pants down and his dick in her mouth before he shoves her away, grabbing her hair and pulling her up by the roots. Clarke only rolls her eyes at him, exasperated, as she glances down at his massively hard cock. 

“What, you don’t want to fuck me now?” 

“Clarke.” Dry. Impassive. Guarded. 

“Your dick says otherwise,” she snorts, hands settling on his hips.

“Clarke” 

“You’ve grown a conscience suddenly, is that it?” she hisses, accusing. He was never a martyr before, but now, when she needs it, she can’t even repurpose him for her own use. 

“Clarke,” he mumbles again like a record on repeat. This time there is more there, a wealth of emotion, of something hiding beneath the surface. 

“Just fuck me already.” 

"No.” 

“Bellamy” 

“No.” 

“What, you gonna marry me? Make me into some kept woman? Make me pure or some shit?” The wetness in her eyes is obvious now, welling up into tiny little tears. Maybe it is anger or grief or hatred, but she is a Molotov cocktail waiting to be lit. This is the first time she’s cried since Jake’s death. 

“I’d rather do that than this,” he says, and leaves her to exit the way she came. 

 

IV

The fourth time, she’s twenty, and the two of them are, if not quite friends, then at least at a truce, forced together by their mutual love of Octavia. Lincoln proposed two weeks ago, and to say Bellamy is scared as shit would be a vast understatement.

“They’re so young,” he moans to her as she starts pouring chips into different bowls. They’re planning a surprise party for Octavia’s engagement, and nothing will stop Clarke from making it absolutely perfect. She tidies compulsively, ordering Bellamy around as they decorate Clarke’s apartment. 

“She’s eighteen, and she can make her own decisions.” 

“Eighteen is way too young to get married.” 

“They’ve been dating for four years, and they’ll probably be engaged for a least another year. I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Besides, Lincoln will definitely treat her right; he’s been doing nothing less since the day they met.” She knows that nothing she will say will assuage him, but she does it anyway, hoping that someday she will wear down that overprotective streak beat into him by practical parenthood. 

“Again, she’s eighteen.” Before she has the chance to respond, she drops the bowl she’s holding, sending cool ranch Doritos across the floor.  
“Goddamnit,” she says, and reaches down to begin scooping the chips up. Bellamy follows suit, and per his typical fashion, doesn’t fail to tease her. 

“You just need a strong male presence,” he says, and she almost punches him then and there, but she sees the telltale twinkle in his eye. Besides, she knows that he’s such a feminist it’s not even funny. It’s the main reason she agreed to put up with him in the first place. 

“Maybe I need to get married,” she jokes. “Octavia’s doing it. It’s all the rage, right?” 

“Oh god,” he groans. “See if I ever help you again.” 

“Oh, Bellamy, will you marry me?” She croons lightly, batting her eyelashes up at him. (It’s not his fault his breath hitches slightly). Instead of a snarky response, he just turns back to the sink to wash the bowl. 

“You’re never letting this go, are you?” 

“Nope.” 

 

V. 

The fifth time, Finn breaks up with her on a Thursday. It’s almost absurd, to be friends with Bellamy Blake, but here she is, standing at his doorstep, soaked from the rain, waiting for him to open the damn door. 

“Finn.” 

“Shit.” The door swings wide and she falls easily into him, the tears already flowing. Bellamy starts her on scotch and switches her to wine when she’s fairly drunk. He was saving that scotch for a special occasion, but really, the girl he likes (loves, if he’s drunk and feeling honest) breaking up with her boyfriend? He’s sure as hell going to enjoy this, at least a little bit. Yeah, he knows he’s an asshole. 

“Bell, I thought I was going to marry him, you know?” It is painful to watch her hurt like this, to watch someone else break a diamond. 

“Yeah,” he says, but by this point they’re both fairly drunk. He doesn’t have it in him to say more. He says it instead by knotting their fingers together and filling her glass again. 

“And, he told me I was old. I’m not even as old as you,” she moans, focusing on something stupid, on the little details that reek of reality. 

“I’m old though,” he acquiesces. 

“Yeah, but only on the inside. You’re still hot.” 

“Thanks,” he says, because he can’t say anything else. He’s not going to acknowledge the little jump in his heart. They go back to silence for a bit. 

“But really, what if I never get married?” she whispers. 

“You’ll get married.” 

“But –“ 

“I’d marry you.” It is the most honest thing he’s said all night. He doesn’t tell her that it would be his privilege, that he dreamed about it once, watching her walk down the aisle to him, to wait for her. She’s worth waiting for. 

“Really?”

“Yeah.” 

 

VI. 

The sixth time, Echo tells him that he has commitment issues before she walks out of his life forever. So, of course, he goes to Clarke, resident Bellamy expert. 

“Shit, it was actually going okay.” He wants to say that he doesn’t understand it, but he knows that he would never have married her. He wants to tell himself otherwise, but he can’t do that tonight. 

“You win some, you lose some,” she says, surprisingly sage. 

“But I didn’t want to lose this one,” he mutters. He really wants to believe that he could have loved Echo the way he loved (loves) Clarke. She only levels him with an incisive glare, and he goes back to pushing pasta around his plate. 

“Well?” She isn’t intrusive; just coaxing. It’s what he needs right now, and she knows it. 

“She said we would never go anywhere. She told me that I would never be able to settle down with anyone because I had commitment issues.” 

“Well, you do.” 

He doesn’t say anything because it’s not true, not really. He doesn’t really have commitment issues; he has Clarke issues. 

“What? It’s true.” Bellamy simply groans in response. It’s easier than correcting her. 

“No one’s ever going to marry me,” he says, and he sobers when he realizes how true that actually might be. Clarke only laughs. She doesn’t seem to pick up on the reality of that. No girl would marry if she saw him with Clarke. 

“Yeah, you’re really a dick, Blake,” she teases. He picks it up, too, because it’s easier to laugh with her than to face up to the truth. 

“Why can’t you just marry me? You already like me. It would be fine, right? That way I wouldn’t have to worry about never being able to settle down.” 

“If you’re not married by the time you’re thirty, I’ll think about it.” 

 

VII

The seventh time, the bar is nearly empty, but the group of them are still there, monopolizing the corner booth and amassing a heavy tab. Clarke and Bellamy are the only two sober ones; they’d rather not announce their relationship drunkenly in front of the entire bar, or worse, start trying to fuck each other on the table. 

They’re nearly at last call when Octavia eyes them suspiciously, contemplating their close posture and the fading hickey on Clarke’s neck. Perhaps if she were sober she would have connected the red lipstick on Bellamy’s collar she’d seen last week and the female shampoo that had appeared in Bellamy’s bathroom. She might have noticed, too, him squeezing her hand silently under the table, or her hand climbing up his thigh earlier in the night. But she was a little too drunk for that, so instead she picks up on what she can reasonably see. 

“Clarke?” she inquires, sweetness overlaying the hint of suspicion beneath. 

“Octavia.” 

“You have a hickey.” 

“I don’t think so. Believe me, I would have noticed if I were getting laid,” she jokes. She’s definitely noticed. 

“Clarke has a boooyfrieeend,” she hums, starting a chant of drunk monsters and forcing a blush to invade Clarke’s pale cheeks. 

“Seriously guys? Real mature.” 

“I bet it’s Bellamy,” Jasper accuses, pointing a finger between them. 

“Oh, of course it is,” she deadpans. “We’re just so in love.” It will be years before the rest of them know how true that is. 

“So in love,” he mimics, equally dry. 

“Oh Bellamy,” she sighs, overly dramatic and sickeningly sweet. 

“Clarke.” 

“Marry me Bellamy?” she sighs to the background of whoops and catcalls.

“Of course, darling.” He replies, and can’t help wishing it were true. 

 

VIII

The last time, he means to do it. He’s planned out the fancy dinner, has bought the perfect ring, has even braved Abby’s wrath and asked permission. He’s done everything right. But then Clarke comes home, her hair a rat’s nest and clothes drenched in amorphous blobs of paint. He tries not to let it get to him, to let it show on his face how much he’d wanted to do it tonight, tries not to let the fact that his wife, no, still just girlfriend, forgot about this dampen him. 

“Clarke.” 

“Hey,” she whispers, and when she turns he can see the sag in her shoulders that he should have noticed earlier, the tension in her neck and back, and the grief that paints her face. 

“Clarke, what’s – Clarke?” he mumbles, pulling her to him. It is then that she starts crying, tears pouring into his dress shirt, leaving a growing circle on his chest. 

“I’m sorry Bellamy. I forgot. I know we had plans. I just – I had a shitty day, okay?” 

“Clarke, it’s fine. I get it. We can reschedule. It’s okay.” He strokes her hair easily, golden locks smooth beneath his fingers. “Come here.” 

“Bell, I was – I was - ” She starts to calm down now, more morosely sad than anything else. 

“Clarke?” 

“I was gonna propose tonight. But then everything happened at work and it all kind of fell apart. I’m sorry.” His wife (oh what the hell, they were definitely getting married) was going to propose. This elicits a laugh from him, deep and throaty. 

“Clarke, no, I was going to propose.” 

“Oh, I know,” she sniffle, and breaks a smile for the first time all night. 

“You know?” 

“Calling Abby isn’t the best idea. She’s not big on subtlety. And besides, I found the ring two weeks ago.” Now she’s outright beaming, the classic Clarke twinkle in her eyes, letting you know that she’s done you one better. 

“You –“ 

“Here,” she says, and produces the ring from her pocket, wrapped in toilet paper. He had the box and everything, but he hadn’t bothered to check it for the actual ring. 

“Clarke, I don’t know what to say.” 

“Say yes, of course.” Dumbfounded, his mouth only hangs open. “Say you’ll marry me, idiot.” 

“Name the date.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you guys so much for reading. It's been a really long time since i've written anything, and this had been hanging around my computer for a while.


End file.
